


Temeraire Crossover Bunny Dump

by PurpleMoon3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: AC:III AU, F/M, Lets Be Dragons, Not My England You Bitch, Plot Bunny Storage, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2019-11-04 23:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17908166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: In which Desmond proves that one should not give Omnipotence without Omnisense to someone who is both severely exhausted and easily distracted.  Among Other Things.





	1. Prolog? Everyone is Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> I have had several Temeriare plot bunnies kicking around my head. I am thus attempting to exorcise a few of them. Updates unlikely. If you see something that inspires you feel free to use the premise - just no copy-pasting text. Also, as I too enjoy reading fanfiction I'd appreciate a notice if anything does get developed.

“Desmond. Desmond. _Look at me_ , Desmond. What. Did. You. Do.” The words form despite the absence of human lips and tongue to form them. His voice still sounds distinctly, thank the Queen, _him_. A bit deeper, perhaps, but considering the sheer girth of his chest... “Desmond!”

“Nnrg.” Desmond's eyes flicker, unseeing, a secondary lid sliding over slit amber eyes in a membrane of gold. His massive bulk shudders, a mangled arm covered in scale glittering scars spasms -Shaun has to fight to stop from looking at the still white hot tracings of gold against flesh- and it is all Rebecca can do to avoid being crushed as their would be chosen one collapses in an exhausted heap. The Temple shakes around them as if in sympathy.

Galina twists around, larger than Shaun and Rebecca but still dwarfed by Desmond, and the only reason he knows it is her that made it into the Grand Temple and not the Templars at the Gate is the chain somehow still wrapped around her neck. The Assassin's Symbol, a plain but polished bit of silver, draws his eye as easily as Desmond's thoroughly cooked limb does. Galina takes her change in circumstances rather well, and in the back of his panic-quiet mind Shaun notes that is apparently a _thing_ with Animus veterans. He'd thought it was simply Desmond being too uncaring, or too simple to appreciate their work but-

“Does he live?” Galina asks as she finishes her inspection of the ancient sanctuary, voice sounding oddly casual. She completes the question with a slight lisping accent only exacerbated by her new face shape.

“I think- yeah. Yeah.” Rebecca lands on Desmond's chest after a moment of confused flapping. She folds the black spotted wings against her back and presses the side of her head against Desmond's chest. “Heart beat sounds regular, at least.”

“Good.” Galina says, her expression quiet contentment as her wide strides carry her beside the platform with the Eye. With both her and Desmond on it, Shaun thinks it is a wonder the thing doesn't crumble out from under them. Good God, Desmond is _literally_ the size of ship. His tail dangles off into an abyss as does one leg. Galina sits, and calmly begins licking the smallest of blood splatters from her armored wrists. “I do not pretend to know what is going on. There was not time for Bill to explain why Shaun need extraction. Many enemy I had to kill to reach you, very difficult, but is okay. All alive, yes, so is okay.”

Shaun stared at her, feeling his own wings tremble with emotion. “Okay? _Okay?!_ I don't know if you noticed, Galina, but I seem to have misplaced my thumbs and grown a bloody tail!”

Rebecca finished her inspection of Desmond's savaged arm and began clambering over his bulk, wrinkling her snout as a bloody feather caught in her claws. Then she smiled, stretching her forelimbs till they touched stone line some kind of scaly cat. It was oddly distracting to watch clearly defined muscles move beneath her dark scales, so much more interesting than Shaun's own fifty shades of grey. His eyes traced the gradients of the ruddy brown on her face and chest to the faded to inky black on her back. Her wings expanded, and her tail twitched suggestively.

“Well, can't say I was expecting _this_ , but would you rather the sun turned us all into charcoal briquettes?” Brown eyes widened in time with a reveal of fetchingly sharp teeth. “Oh, hey! Do you think we can breath fire now?”

* * *

FYI

Shaun is a Grey Widowmaker.

Rebecca is a Mauerfuchs Cross.

Galina is an Ironwing.

Desmond is an absolute mutt that has resulted in a heavyweight with almost no talons to speak of, a retractable bone spike in each wrist, feathers around his head and spine, and fire breathing. 


	2. Everyone Is Dragons, And Also Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaun receives some bad news, Rebecca gets a puppy, Galina is entertained, and Desmond is the magic dragon of every little boy's fantasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I've only recently finished Black Powder War and while I have read some spoilers I have no idea how North American/United States dragon culture works.
> 
> Also, as the Oneida and Mohawk were both part of the Iroquois Confederacy I figure that even if they didn't speak the exact same language there would be some commonalities and Ratonhnhaké:ton would have been able to understand for trade purposes if nothing else. I am too lazy to do in depth research for a single chapter.

In hindsight, and only in the safety of his own mind, Shaun grudgingly concedes that maybe being turned into a dragon wasn't entirely Desmond's fault. It is obvious that the man was the trigger for the transformation, no one disputes that, but with all the plotting the Isu Triumvirate did behind each others backs the human-to-flying-lizard could have been anyone. The way the Temple, left to complete its own construction after even the Isu died to time and lack of resources, is designed suggests _something_ was intentional.

The whole structure is utterly massive, with pathways and doors that where before seemed needlessly expansive and grandiose are necessary for a creature of Desmond's size. Though it is a tight squeeze.

Unfortunately, the actual entrance to the Temple is significantly narrower. This was fine when they were all of human shape and proportion, but now with only Shaun and Rebecca small enough to scramble out of the half-collapsed tunnel there are difficulties.

Some of which, it turns out, that Minerva or _someone_ had planned for. During one of her spelunking trips Galina finds a platform that lights up on her approach, and the shifting holograms eventually turn into the Isu equivalent of an Exit sign. The surprised roar she lets out when reforming in a shower of sunbeams is so loud birds for miles around take flight and, just like that, their location is announced to anyone who would care to know.

“Frankly,” Shaun grumbles as Desmond appears outside for the first time weeks, golden light flickering around him like bees swarming their queen. “I'm surprised the Isu lasted as long as they did. The more we learn about them the more they seem like a bunch of idiot savants with delusions of godhood than an advanced society. They manage to cobble together a bloody teleporter to get Desmond's arse off the sofa, but then launch a bunch of Apples into space without the accompanying broadcast equipment to actually be useful? Or, you know, someone there to direct the damned things? Evil, corrupt, and dangerously competent they may have been but at least Abstergo had plans I could bleeding well follow.”

“Not to mention the monologues.” Desmond added, squinting past the steam that began to rise off his own body as the winter chill hit his unfairly heated bulk. “If there was one thing I could count on the doc to do, it was explain things, even if he did it in the most rude and condescending way possible.”

“ _There is no greater sin than ignorance_.” Galina quoted zealously around the dearly purchased deer haunch in her mouth as the native traders, including a dragon with a rather boxy snout and the most fetching harness of leather and polished turquoise, stared wide-eyed at the arrival of the Assassins' own idiot savant.

Rebecca snorted. “That fucker just liked to hear himself talk. You know it, I know it, Wolfie knows it-”

Desmond blinked, though this time it was less about light stabbing into his eyes and more about surprise as he caught sight of the humans and their scaly companion. “Wolfie?”

Shaun sighed. It was a waste of resources when they didn't have any, and dragon he may now be but Shaun had been quick to find out hunting was not part of his instinctual skill set, but after everything they'd been through he wasn't going to try and stop Rebecca from reclaiming a little bit of home. “Wolfenstien Cladius Crane the Third. Rebecca's new... _puppy._ ”

They'd all given up things in the war with Abstergo, with the Templars, and if he could ease some of the discomfort from her face upon learning that vegetarian options were slim-to-none for a dragon during winter, well...

“Um.” Desmond hedged, watching as the smaller dragon couched protectively over the even smaller form that was gnawing on her tail. “Hate to break it to you, but that isn't a dog.”

“And?” Rebecca's reptilian eyes flushed amber with alarm as she sweeps the little fluff butt awkwardly into her arms. “You aren't bleeding Connor, are you?”

“Those wolves attacked us – him! He was just defending himself.” Desmond defended while taking several alarmed steps back as a boy in brightly painted leather coverings rushed over to him with a babble of something vaguely familiar but certainly not English. “And _no_ , I don't _think_ so... but, we're dragons and there is a kid asking me to be his... heart-twin? Soulmate? Are we dead?”

Shaun perked up. “Oh, so you can understand them? That's good. I'm afraid we only got so far with charades and the smattering of French I remembered from holiday. I'm afraid _est-ce que je peux utiliser vos toilettes s'il vous plaît_ has almost no meaning in the middle of the bloody forest.”

“We are not dead.” Galina interrupted Shaun's snark with the very loud, very literal snap of leg bone and she tossed her head back and swallowed the last of her haunch. “The dead do not hunger.”

Shaun watched as Desmond traded a few words with the adult-sized hunters while trying not to squish the tiny human making little exclamations of dismay at the sight of Desmond's still tender arm. Foreleg. Whatever. First awkward and slow, then with increasing confidence as well as - yes. Shaun scrunched his nose. It was the closest he could come to a frown, now. “What?”

Desmond swiveled his great feathered head toward him. Shaun wasn't sure how something as large and powerful as Desmond could look sheepish, but he managed it. “So, um, they want to know if you got banished from England after the invasion, and if they should expect more?”

For one terrifying moment Shaun thought he had died. The world tunneled into a white, blank expanse like an animus loading screen awaiting his input. Like most British, he thought, he had mixed feelings about his history and he liked to think he knew more about the particulars than most. He'd always been interested in the past and how the ripple effects of old events and grudges could still be seen today. He knew that for all the great things his country had accomplished she was not without faults. Big, big faults that left fractures of shame in the 21st century populace.

And yet, _and yet_ , on the whole whatever mistakes were made England had picked herself up and tried to do better. The thought of her invaded, _colonized_ , sent a feeling of absolute revulsion through the grey dragon. England was _his_ country. _His_. How dare someone, some _thing_ , come and try to take it?

There was nothing human in angry screech that burst from his mouth.

* * *

Desmond, after several more back-and-forth's with the Oneida hunters, was surprised to find out he himself was a bit of a rarity. Most dragons in North America didn't get much bigger than a horse, with a few larger breeds down in the plains where there were plenty of bison to support them, and as the People of the Longhouse did not have a breeding program as such dragons tended to stay that way.

Which was a good thing, Desmond supposed, as Shaun had given him hell about eating five times as much as than the rest of them.

At least Otetiani, the dragon who was partnered to Kariwase, agreed that pigging out and then passing out was perfectly normal for a wounded dragon. The Assassin hadn't said anything to his smaller teammates, Desmond hadn't wanted to worry anyone, but fear of falling into another coma was something that had been weighing heavily on his mind.

Sometimes he still wondered if he was dead, or dying, and this was all his oxygen deprived and pain addled mind could come up with to cope with it all. He had been sure using the Eye was going to kill him. Positive. He had been expecting it, even hoping for it in a way, so at least he could die as himself and not Ratonhnhaké:ton, or Ezio, or any one of many ancestors that had started poking their noses into his life when there wasn't an Animus to keeping them out.

But then he went and put his hand on the damn thing,  _ laid claim to it _ , and the consequences there of. He didn't want to free Juno, but he could save the world. Spread his wings and protect it. And wasn't that a laugh? All those Assassins in his blood that spent their lives flying from rooftops, named after fucking birds, and here was Desmond. 

The Protector, or in Ezio's bad French, The World.

Ha, fucking ha.

“We can't just charter a ship,” Rebecca was saying as she was loaded down with tightly bundled packs of trade goods – the service that had been negotiated for the meat the three Oneida had given her and Shaun to carry back to the Temple. “Desmond would sink it.”

“'Snot my fault.” He grumbled, “I was engineered this way.”

“Not to mention we are rather low on funds at the moment, and keeping five dragons fed for a six week trip -at minimum- is not going to be cheap.” Shuan pointed out, raising a paw in habit before remembering he didn't have glasses anymore and in fact no longer needed them. His scales darkened with embarrassment as he continued and tried to ignore looks a few of the local lady dragons were sending the Brit. It had to be the accent.

Not that the attention on Shuan meant Desmond got any less. More, actually, but luckily his size meant not many of the smaller girls were willing to try anything. Yet.

There was a thought.

Did dragons have kinks? Taboos?

...Did dragons masturbate? How would that even work?

“I'll ask.” Desmond tucked that line of thought to the side and addressed the gaggle of children that were watching the loading proceedings. “ _ How do the English move their dragons?” _

The kids, dressed like colorful popinjays, laughed. Apparently, they do not. One of the reasons behind the loss of the Crown during this timeline's rendition of the Revolutionary War was because there were so few dragons on England's side. Granted, being mostly British themselves the colonials didn't use dragons much either, but at least they'd grown accustomed enough they didn't lose their ever loving minds when a flight passed overhead and wouldn't turn their noses at a riderless dragon arriving with provisions to sell.

The French, though... “Well, they've got these bigger ships, sound a bit like air craft carriers? Called Dragon Transports. But they are all owned by governments.”

“So we steal ship.” Galina shrugged with her wings, then grinned, though with her jawline it looked more like a leer. “ _ Everything is Permitted.” _

“Even if we do,” Shaun huffed. “How are we going to sail it? Four dragons alone can't work rigging, and I know a lot but I don't know how to navigate by the stars... or read a compass. I honestly never thought I'd be somewhere GPS couldn't reach.”

“...I can.” Or rather Edward could. He wasn't going to tell them about Edward, but Galina was giving him an indulgent look. She knew. She  _ understood _ . “But Shaun's right. We can't do it with just the four of us and I doubt you'd find many people willing to steal a government transport and sail it halfway across the world for no reason-”

“No reason?!”

“-other than because.”

“Does it have to be people?” Rebecca asked, a familiar excitement to her voice. “I mean, we're dragons. We aren't stupid. Could we recruit other dragons?”

Desmond looked at the local dragons, an odd mix of muted colors and sizes and shapes, wild but for the clear intelligence and curiosity in their bearing. Desmond was pretty sure he was unique in having a triple jointed digit on his front paws that  _ could _ work as a thumb in a pinch, but he'd also seen some pretty epic tail-eye coordination in Rebecca. And if 'Becs could do it...

Desmond grinned and crouched down so as to better accommodate the humans carrying over the wood they wanted him to transport, and thus save them several dangerous tips in the snow. “So, saying we steal this ship... would that make us Pirate Assassin Dragons?”

Desmond desperately wished he had eyebrows to waggle.

 


	3. Historia Regum Britanniae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Once and Future King... is William Laurence. But not even Duty will compel him to get near that throne.

The World is comprised of darkness and sound. That is all he knows – until it isn't. He cannot recall when it happened but one moment there was nothing, not even him, and the next there was awareness. Sounds flow from someplace beyond the World, muted by the barrier that separates his reality and the other.

He decides he likes the Sounds. They are something to think about when he isn't enjoying the quiet of the dark. The volume and pitch is constantly changing, and there is pattern to it -

Pattern.

That is a new concept. What is a pattern?

The knowledge comes in drips the more he listens, catching on the repetitions of individual Sounds and just as he thinks he has it-

Quiet.

Understanding escapes him like water through a sieve, though the knowledge remains. He has concepts but no names to put to them, and to name a thing is to know it, and suddenly fear courses through him because he has no name.

_In the beginning was the Word..._

But perhaps that is okay. The World rocks, sways, and though even more distant he can hear the words, the rush of wind, the reality outside his own small world. He lets that strange thing inside link concept to sound and understanding fill him up. He starts to wonder if perhaps his World, nice as it is, is a little too small. Too dull. Perhaps he should try to find this _emperuer_ , he must be very interesting to command such respect from his subjects.

Then the Sounds change again, heralded by the barks of several somethings so loud it is unfathomable.

_Cannons._

And terribly, terribly exciting.

 _I want_ , he thinks as his belly begins to rumble and his wings strain against a membrane that bends but does not break, _I want to see!_

His World begins to harden.

* * *

William doesn't remember Igraine. Odd, considering how much he does remember of times long past and others yet to come but also, perhaps, a mercy. He loves his lady mother and the hugs she bestows, and the stories she tells after shooing the nurses away. It would be unfair to compare the Lady Allendale, a mother, to the Lady Igraine, his father's war bride. Truth: William doesn't quite remember Uther either but in that he can't _help_ but compare his former father to Lord Allendale. Second son or secret son, William and his father rarely interact with anything that can be called warmth.

In that, he misses Sir Ector and the endless days of training. By Gaia, what happened to Britain's nobility? Bedivere survived, he _knows_ this, but still... when did the defining duty of the equestrians stop being defense of their people and turn into... arguing?

He has fought, and fought, and fought and gotten so tired of fighting as time twisted and nothing worked that putting down crown and sword and crawling into a bier became the only reasonable option. _His_ Britain had been ripped apart by too many wars, but from Grail granted knowledge he'd known even as he fought long-dead heroes and his own master that Britannia survived. The Isles continued, unconquered, and to undo that would have been... selfish. Prideful.

And he had been so tired.

So it is a surprise to even himself when he makes the decision to run away and join the Navy because he can't sit still and do _nothing_ when Britannia is at war. It is not a surprise to Lady Allendale, however, who only responds to the news with a short letter full of worry, love, and unfailing support. Blue had always been William's color, anyway.

And William adores it. There are difficult parts, there always are as a squire but the _ships!_

The ships!

They had never been so large during his rule, with guns that make his mind whirl at the possibilities. Captain William Laurence never loses a battle, and while not as famous as Nelson, the Demon of the Sea gains some small reputation as a skilled if eccentric naval commander. Not many carry an arming sword instead of a cutlass. Then there is the dragons. Though the ships he has served on have rarely engaged in any joint actions with the Aerial Corp, knowing that the dragons exist eases a tension he hadn't realized he had until catching sight of wide wings the color of burnished copper overhead. Their Quest hadn't been a total failure. Percival had done it. Somehow.

_The mana of Albion hadn't faded into nothing. The dragons still live._

And yet, capturing the egg on the French ship still comes as a surprise. When the creature hatches and begins to familiarize itself with the deck, Mr. Carver following haplessly in its wake, and William frowns. Dragons are creatures of _power_ and _intent_. Mr. Carver, while by no means a coward, is too uncertain to gain the attention of the little black dragon.

It stops at his feet, beautifully blue eyes peering up at him as a long neck stretches, and as the sun shifts behind a cloud and throws them all in shade the shape in front of him transforms into a rock pieced by the long line of Caliburn.

“Why are you frowning?” It asks, and William doesn't know if it senses the dragon he holds in his own breast -like calling to like- or if it found of the particular golden shade of his hair pleasing enough for a closer inspection. Or perhaps it was simply that William is the only one of the ship that doesn't shy away from the tiny thing, and that makes him worthy.

He flicks his gaze over to Carver. The boy is pale, horrified, but not for himself. For his Captain. William's expression softens as he shakes his head and turns back to the dragon. “I apologize, I did not mean to. I am William Laurence, Captain of the _HMS Reliant_. And you are?”

The dragon makes a displeased sound in his throat, a sort of gurgle, and admits: “I have no name.”

That... is news. Had no one aboard the French told the creature its name? Surely they knew it learned through the shell? To name a thing was to know it, and in the knowing claim it. Slowly, William relaxed calloused fists that ached with the weighty ghosts of war. “Would you like me to give you one?”

“If you please.”

Stupid, William thinks. He had been so tired. He didn't want this. He doesn't want this. He wants to Captain his ship and defend his Britannia and leave the leading and ruling to someone else. Life is _simple_ on the sea. But they are at War, the French are trying to remake Rome, and though he may currently be a Laurence his soul will always be Pendragon.

It is stupid -reckless even- and he'll probably be sent back to Navy once a proper aviator is able to come and collect the dragon... but the knight that would leave a child nameless and homeless is no knight.

Reckless. Yes.

William smiles a bit whimsically. “Temeraire.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I recently learned that Pendragon comes from the Welsh for 'Chief-Dragon/Warrior'. And Vortigern not only was represented by a _white dragon_ in lore but in Fate/ specifically he legit turned into one. And the Quest for the Grail was because magic was fading from Britain and they needed a miracle to stop it. 
> 
> And Lancelot was French, apparently? I find this HILARIOUS. 
> 
> Temeraire might turn into the reincarnation of Guinevere. I am undecided. Napoleon is totes Lancelot, though.
> 
> But, if continued, Laurence will be a great help to teaching Temeraire different applications for the Divine Wind. You know. Because Saber had all those Invisible Air applications.


	4. A Song of Wind and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drogon thinks everyone is stupid but him and mommy. Rhaegal needs to learn some evasive maneuvers. And Viserion is a little shit. Also, GoT dragons are now proper dragons with wings separated from forelegs. For reasons.

**Drogon I**

Drogon drifted on the eddies of air that swirled above the endless sea. He tried to keep steady for his flightless mother's sake, for she was even smaller than his brothers, but they had flown so far and so long he could not remember which way lay the solid earth. There was only forward, ever forward, and the shifting sea below. To stop was to die, and sink to the sunless depths.

“Drogo...” His mother whimpered in her uneasy sleep, twitching where she lay upon his back, and Drogon crooned in an attempt to soothe his burden.

“Brother.” Viserion's small form flitted close, his pale scales flashing in the sun like the waves below, and Drogon's jaws snapped in irritation. Smoke issued between the knives that were his teeth. He huffed as the smaller dragon danced away with a petulant whine. “Dro-gon. Rhaegal has spotted a wooden horse! Larger than any before!”

Drogon scoffed, and sparks mixed with the smoke. A horse on the poisoned water was nothing but a bit of trickery, like the visions of water in the Red Wastes. They had flown long in their escape, away from the pale things with their too-pale hides and too-dark lips, away from the dreams that were chains and the chains that were dreams. So far and long they flew from all that was _not_ dragon he half suspected they'd left the world altogether and now ventured through the Nightlands. Though, the last thought could have been the hunger and exhaustion talking.

Unimpressed, or perhaps merely as addled by the unending flight as Drogon himself, the littlest brother bared teeth. They were mere needles compared to the armaments of the black dragon, but even so it was not an action he would normally take on pain of pain.

“It is no dream! And no trick! Come!”

“How do you know? Men build wooden horses – the men that betrayed us.”

Viserion stopped, thin wings rotating wildly to keep him aloft, and then he roared in Drogon's face. Frustration smelt of sulfur, and the sound was enough to break through to their dazed, parched mother. She shifted, and dry lips parted as words rasped out. “Wha-? When did we-? Viserion? What is the matter?”

"Only dragons can trust dragons.  It is known."  The pale dragon groaned, a sound that was like a guttural whine to their mother's less acute ears. He darted away, then back again. “There is a dragon on the wooden horse – and Rhaegal says he is bigger than you!”

Another dragon? Bigger than himself?

If his brother said it was so, it was so. Or he thought it was. Viserion may be a bit of a coward, but Rhaegal was a bit of an idiot. Drogon hesitated, circling with indecision. He could still feel the chain around his throat, and see the ashes that were not. His mother wasn't safe on his back, but standing defiant and protective before them even as she was pulled apart for the magic in her soul like marrow from bones.

“Drogon.” His mother's voice was soft and beginning to slur; she needed water that was not poisoned. A proper nest. Food, suited to her blunted teeth. “ _Something... something is wrong._ Follow Viserion.”

Mother spoke the last in father's tongue. What could Drogon do but obey? He wheeled in the air to keep Viserion in sight and pumped his sore, tired wings. It was more difficult to fly in this direction, the wind was not with him, but he could do so. He would. And if it was a trick... if someone had chained Rhaegal in his naivety... sought to chain _him_... his _mother_....

There would be fire. Fire and _blood_.

**Laurence I**

Laurence observed the little green and bronze dragon that had appeared from seemingly no where. It was smaller than a Winchester, barely bigger than a child's pony, with patches of bruised scales that hinted at abuse and an unsettling slimness that confirmed it. Though still new to the Aerial Corp Laurence was certain that whatever breed the creature was he did not know it. Indeed, the coloration and body shape brought to mind a half a dozen breeds he'd seen during his time at the Dover covert. A feral, perhaps? Captured wild, perhaps intended for some country's breeding grounds, but escaped while in transport?

From the hushed, anxious whispers of his crew Laurence know he wasn't the only one speculating.

From the hushed, anxious whispers of Captain Riley's Laurence knew it might not matter. His gaze drifted to a blackened bit of deck where the small creature had huddled up to Temeraire. Keynes stood just on the other side of the dark border, speaking to Temeraire's concerns and trying to cajole the terribly smaller creature to cooperate for an examination. The surgeon wasn't very successful, though his usual lack of bedside manner had lead to an important discovery.

The little green dragon was a fire breather.

“Those spines look a bit like a Kazilik.” His First Lieutenant grumbled, though Laurence knew Granby's mood wasn't directed at him. Or their guest. “But I don't see the steam characteristic of the breed. Perhaps it is too young... blast it. I'd hazard to put an age on the poor blighter without knowing what his final growth might be.”

Laurence nodded, more to himself than Granby. “Temeraire had grown to a similar size in less than a week.”

“Aye, that would do it. So long as they have food they'll grow quick.”

But the little green clearly hadn't had food.

There was a commotion from behind and Laurence turned to see the crew of the _Allegiance_ parting to make way for their captain. Captain Riley looked perturbed, and swift steps brought him to Laurence's side. “Captain Laurence, a word -”

Laurence suspected what his old subordinate had meant to say, but would never be sure. An alarm rang out from the lookout on the main royal and they all turned to look skyward. Temeraire's head turned the direction the alarm indicated, eyes narrowing for a moment before widening in surprise. At his feet, the little green cried in its own alarm, as if frightened by the sudden sounds. “Laurence! Laurence there are two more dragons coming! _And one of them has a Captain!_ ”

**Dany I**

“ _Good Lord, that's a girl!”_

She doesn't remember landing, or the hands that reached for her like a parent does a child, pulling her from her own. The constant, dull roar of wind drifting by was replaced with hushed human voices and something cool on her face. Something rough and wet pressed against her mouth, and she took it between her lips, sucking.

“ _Now, now, calm down you great beast. We're just going to get that shackle off her._ ”

Grumbling, and rocking, and another voice that wasn't so much a shout as it was simply **there** seeped into her bones. _“I don't think that is a good idea, Laurence. Clearly, they are not feral. They simply do not know that you will give her back. I would... I don't know what I would do if someone I didn't know took you away while hurt.”_

Dany opened her eyes, and it hurt. Not the brightness of the sun, that had already begun to fall behind the horizon, but her skin shifted and peeled as she fought out from under the hot, heavy cloth that had been folded around her. A ship, she thought dazedly, I am on a ship.

“ _Good Evening.”_ A voice came from above. “ _Are you feeling any better?”_

“I-” Dany looked up. And up. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest as she took in blue eyes and black scales. Had her children brought her all the way to Valyria? “Beautiful...”

The cloth around her shifted, and Viserion's head poked out and jabbed at her middle. Drogon huffed, smoke spewing from his snout, and his spike lined tail thudded onto the deck between her and Balerion look alike as if to keep her to himself.

“ _Young lady?”_ Dany turned again, this time finding herself facing a concerned man. He wore a coat of green, and a strange sword. Was he a knight? But she didn't see any armor – not on anyone. The man frowned, continued speaking, and Dany felt her gaze follow the fall of the man' golden hair to eyes that spoke a language she understood even if his mouth did not.

“ _I don't think she understands, Laurence._ ” The massive black dragon said in that very same, unknown language. Dany felt her throat constrict, and her stomach twist. She sucked in a breath.

“ _I think you may be correct, my dear.”_ The man patted the – his- dragon's foreleg.

“Mother?” Drogon rumbled, and Dany rested one hand reassuringly on her son's head. The other rose to her face. “Why are you crying? You should not cry! You need your water!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Um. This one was partially born from the sleep deprived thought I was kicking around with some friends that maybe Dany's dragons were like Temeraire dragons, learning language in the shell, only because she was with the Dothraki when they were eggs that's the only language they know. And the control issues she had with them was because she was giving commands in High Valyrian. Of course, then she finally reconnected with Drogon and started leading a proper Khalasar again so those rouge dragon issues have all cleared up.


	5. Pirate Assassin Dragons III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca likes to Party.

Rebecca squinted through the glass at the draft sheets Desmond had arranged -though a series of trades, purchases, favors, and vague threats that would have made Ezio Auditore look on in pride- for some less than scrupulous individuals to acquire for her. Sailing to England and kicking some French ass so Shaun would stop grumbling and get some much needed sleep was easier said than done. While Desmond and Galina flew south to track down the nearest dragon transport, it was her job to figure out the modifications that would allow a bunch of dragons, however small, to crew it. Most shipwrights did not built boats with the idea of dragons going below decks.

But that wasn't to say it was only dragons they were recruiting! The Assassins were an equal opportunity Brotherhood and several scaly citizens expressing interest in life beyond the Americas had human partners, and their disgruntled leader had even managed to find a handful of British sailors willing to sail under Desmond's dubious expertise. What king and country could not compel promises of booty and a overpowered backup did.

Rebecca couldn't blame them. For so long the Brotherhood had gotten by with ducking and running, but it wasn't until witnessing what they had once been through Desmond, through _Ezio_ , that Rebecca had started to feel like maybe it was a war they were loosing. Now though, they had the big guns. They _were_ the big guns.

Lack of thumbs was a bit annoying, and Rebecca had yet to figure out how Desmond managed to sneak around town when he was nearly four -five?- times her size, but it was like ye olde internet meme said. Always be yourself, unless you can be a dragon. Then be a dragon. Even if your motif was all about Eagles, she liked to think their little cell made good dragons.

Even if Desmond, the lucky bastard, was the only one who could get a proper fire going.

“What do you think, Wolfie?” Rebecca asked best fur-baby as she compared the sketches she'd made in a bit of cleared earth to the ship design that was spread out under the commissioned magnifying glass that had been as expensive as it was necessary. It had arrived along with the stolen blueprints set in an adjustable frame. Rebecca scraped a claw against tooth, for lack of having fingernails to chew on. She missed her music. Sea shanties were still a thing in this time period, right? “Most of the interior walls are designed to shift a bit to accommodate cargo, but I'll need to pry up the floors, decks... whatever, without compromising the ship integrity.”

Her tail thumped on the ground, an absent minded drumbeat and she chewed through the problem. Ships were not her thing. Computers were her thing. _Electronics_ were her thing. Wooden ships, however... most of what she knew came from Shaun, and the programming they did to allow the Animus to read Connor's naval memories. According the Lucy, there was nothing more embarrassing than desyncing because the memory called for a stealth swim and your servers had an apoplectic fit because they didn't know how to deal with underwater psychics.

“We're already in America, so getting live oak to increase our armor rating shouldn't be too difficult.” Rebecca muttered around her claw, now tapping a counterpoint rhythm to her tail beats. Her heart thudded in her chest, pace quickening. “But I can't just point and click. It would take months to completely refit a ship, and a DT would take even longer. Easier to just build from scratch, probably.”

Wolfenstein abandoned his knuckle bone and began pouncing after her drumming tail, his own waggling happily.

Rebecca sighed and sat on her claws. What she needed was books. And, if they were going to have as many dragons as she expected running around the ship, more ballast. That was why dragons were only supposed to stay on the one deck. Tipping over was a thing.

“Come, Wolfie. To the Archives!” Rebecca stood on all fours, wings stretching delightfully, and headed back to the Grand Temple. Her wolf pup followed behind her, barking like her own personal crier, and Rebecca called out cheerful hellos to those natives peoples and the recruits that had taken to camping around the Temple. She should probably be concerned about that but, well, they were dragons.

The timeline they knew had already fucked itself to hell and back. Which was probably one of the reasons for Shaun's fits.

And Shaun was all kinds adorable when he was flustered with drink, wings quivering, trying to explain to his countrymen without dropping the hindsight of history that just because George the Third was _the Mad_ and the Navy tended to requisition everything and everyone not nailed down did not mean that they should just wash their hands and let the French take control. They were, after all, the _French_.

Honestly, listening to him rant about the long enmity between the two nations was the least she do. He'd certainly let her go on about Baby often enough.

Rebecca scrambled through the cave entrance of the Temple, which someone had helpfully cleared out and shored up with timber, and padded down the halls while calling, “Shaun! You in here?”

Wolfie barked and took a point as Shaun's gray head and green eyes popped up from a chasm. Rebecca gave a careful pat to her wolf and watched as Shaun flapped his wings to help push himself back over the precipice. Even in the low light of the Temple his scales gleamed, like burnished steel, so shiny and proper and British. 

His snout twitched. “Rebecca. Yes. Did something happen? I knew we should have gone with them, I knew it. Galina has always been a bit too free with the C4 and Desmond's a damn pushover...”

“No, no! Nothing is on fire!”

“Yet.”

She sauntered over to the former man, though it was a bit hard not to saunter with the hip and leg ratio she was rocking, and shook her head. “I'm sure they are fine. I got a few dozen questions for you, if you aren't too busy?”

Shaun sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his snout. “No, not really. Just trying to calculate the provisions we will need when we finally get underway. No matter how I look at it, it simply isn't feasible to bring all the cattle with us...” 

He trailed off, and Rebecca bumped his shoulder with her own. She flashed her fangs at him.

“...so we're going to have to have a team dedicated to fishing, everyday. Which would probably help with human supplies, as well. And I have no idea what those two are up to, because instead of a progress report all Desmond sent _me_ was cocktail recipe. With Rum underlined three times. The prick. Like I don't know what grog is!”

“Channeling his inner Jack Sparrow, huh?”

“Let's hope not. I'd like our Captain to keep his ship. Our ship.”

“Speaking of ships, I need you to look over the design I put together. I think I might need a second opinion to keep everything from tipping over.” Rebecca said, perking up at the thought of Desmond's legendary mixing skills being brought to draconian levels. They were getting a party boat!

Shaun gasped and pressed a clawed foot to his muscled chest. “Rebecca! Admitting a fallacy! The end times approach.”

“Hey now, I told you guys when we started this. I do circuit boards, not ships. Now come on.” She slapped the tip of his snout with her tail as she headed back, winding through hallways and piles of rubble to the crisp, clean air outside. A breeze drifted through the trees and brought with it the smell of something delightful from the cook fires. Soon, the snow would be melting.

Her heart beat a little faster as her ears caught a grumble of _should_ _get rid of the cannons, we can just fly over and drop mortars._

She loved a challenge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, nearly all I know of how sailing ships work comes from AC:Black Flag and Temeraire.


	6. Historia Regum Britanniae II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temeraire is worried he's too fat, and Laurence turns into a dragon to show that flying lizard people come in all shapes and sizes.

William watches as Volatilus and Captain James take flight, and allows himself a small smile of bemusement at the pair.  He never did get the Captain's family name, did he?  The man had been more familiar that William expected, was used to with the Navy where the divide between officers and enlisted was sharp and severely enforced.  But, William supposed, until otherwise notified Captain William Laurence of His Majesty's Navy and Captain James Coffee Drinker of His Majesty's Aerial Corp were technically equals of rank, and with James being the sole member of Volatilus' crew there was no reason to keep up appearances of decorum.

William let the thought settle with an unladylike grunt, and turned to Temeraire to inquire as to how the visit between the dragons had gone. 

"He was very happy to have the cow."  Temeraire said, but there was a cadence to the words that was a little too slow.  William let the smile fall from his face, and took in the subtle droop of wings and general posture of his dragon.  Temeraire, weather it was something his breed did naturally or because he'd copied William himself, always carried himself with a quiet dignity.  Certainly, William had little experience in proper posture on such a creature but he had a little flame of pride when it came to Temeraire's manners and carriage. 

He followed Temeraire's eyeline, up into the sky and likely beyond what a human could see easily.  James and Volatilus were just a pale white speck in the sky - or perhaps not even that, and it was simply wishful thinking.  William put a hand on Temeraire's shoulder, "I am sorry your first meeting with another dragon was not as we would have hoped."

Gaze unwavering from the sky, and so missing the pause of breath as William made to continue, Temeraire sighed.  "It is not that.  Volly was very sweet, and told me many things.  Mostly about cows."  The black dragon dug a claw into the earth.  "They have to wait for the cows at the dragon coverts, and the big ones make all the little ones wait even longer.  I'm a big one."

Temeraire's mouth closed into a line, the unhappiness radiating from him, before continuing with, "And he was so _small_ Laurence!  Well, not too much smaller than I, I suppose, but I am still growing."

"Well, yes."  William wasn't sure what there was to say to that.  He was suddenly reminded of his previous life, and the unhappy distance that grew between him and his wife every time he announced his leaving for another battlefield, another quest.  He'd thought she understood, but perhaps she didn't, or perhaps the weight of duty had been too much, there had never been time to ask, after... "Temeraire, my dear, _please_.  What is it?"

Temeraire's head nearly knocked him over as it pressed into Laurence's chest.  "It is only,  Sir Edward said I was an Imperial and they have almost no knowledge of me.  Before I hatched only one man outside of China had even seen my breed!  What if..."  Temeraire's voice dropped to a soft whisper, but because he had long ceased being of a size to sit in William's lap it wasn't very quiet.  More of a loud rasp.  "What if I, I _don't stop growing_.  I know I am too big now to return to our ship.  And if all the other dragons are so much smaller-"

"My dear,"  William wrapped his arms around Temeraire's muzzle, quieting the worried ramble as he rubbed the scales of the young dragon with his cheek.  "There is absolutely nothing _malformed_ about you.  You are beautiful and perfect, as nature intended you to be, and your final growth does not even signify.  It doesn't matter to me if you are the size of a ship or a city or a _flea_."

Temeraire's head bobbed, and William knew from the stiffing of wings his dragon was pleased.  He released Temeraire's jaws from his hug in favor of long strokes between his eyes and down his snout, rather like he'd done to soothe his warhorse after battle once upon a time.

"Well, I suppose..."  The dragon begrudgingly agreed, kneading the earth like dough between his talons.  There was a plaintive cast to Temeraire's eyes as he looked down at his captain.  "So long as I have you... but if I was the size of a city I... I might squash you, Laurence.  I wouldn't mean to!  But-"

William sighed.  He wasn't going to let this go, was he?  Temeraire was clever, far cleverer than most men, only he hadn't the age and experience to hone that cleverness.  William glanced back to the cottage, and considered.  He gave Temeraire a final pat.  "Temeraire.  Walk with me."

"Laurence?"

They walked along a meandering path that had been formed by generations of feet pounding grass flat.  Well, to be honest William walked along the path and Temeraire followed with nervous steps, attention never wavering from the blond.  Once William judged them to be an acceptable distance from any spare eyes and ears, and the shadows of the soft hills and trees had lengthened and merged into a vague cloak, William stopped and began undoing the buckles of his belt.  Captain James had made his egress so abruptly William had hardly had time to grab his sword, never mind his coat.

"My dear, do you recall the story I told you about the China man and pearl?  And you asked me if men could become dragons?"  Though their selection of books on the _Reliant_ had been limited, William had lived and fought in times where the strength of a legend was the strength of one's sword and the Grail had seen fit to bestow some general knowledge of the East onto the Heroic Spirits it had summoned.  That grace had been the only reason he'd known to use the lacquered, paired sticks that had come with meals rather than tip the bowls toward his mouth. 

At his captain's words Temeraire sat back on his haunches, blue eyes twinkling like sapphires as he stared at William.  "Oh, oh yes.  You said you didn't know of any pearls that could cause such a transformation."

And then William had dropped the subject, for sailors were a superstitious sort, and the time that had been wasted on crushing the remains of Temeraire's egg to keep witches from cursing the ship had spoken for itself.

After carefully folding his clothing and setting his boots and blade beside them, William stood bare before his dragon.  He smiled and closed his eyes, grasping the prana that pulsed in time to his heart.  Vortigern had utilized a similar ability, and frequently.  It was an admirable tactic, the damage a heavyweight dragon could do to ground targets was legendary and the blow to morale unsustainable. 

But William had never seen a fellow dragon.  He'd seen an enemy and a target, one who's sheer size made it impossible to be missed, and it was also that very size that made Vortigern's attacks so imprecise and savaged his own people as much as William's.  And that, ultimately, had been the white dragon's downfall.

William fell backward into his own soul.  He heard Temeraire cry alarm, but it was a distant thing and forgotten between one breath and the next.  His skin was too hot, too tight to consider anything else and with a twist of prana that was more instinct than spell he felt an immense wave of relief ripple through him.  Muscles grew, flowing like water.  Blood boiled into place.  With a sigh William opened crystalline, slit eyes.

"Oh.  Oh _Laurence_."  Temeraire was no longer a creature that looked down at him.  William blinked at the reflection of himself he saw in Temeraire's wide, wide eyes.  The captain had become far larger than Temeraire, easily a heavyweight at full growth, comparable to the smaller regal coppers, but unlike a regal copper William's scales were a bright, rich, uniform red.  Uniform, except for the irregular horn like growths at his wing joints and about his head.  There the red faded into points of deepest yellow, and it was as if William wore a golden tiara and veil.  Or, perhaps, a mane. 

William stood on all fours and extended his wings.  It was not a form he had taken often, had not taken since his first childhood, truly, when Merlin taught him of his future kingdom by allowing him to take the forms of all creatures that resided within it. 

"You are _beautiful_."

"And yet I am far larger than you, my dear."  William rumbled with amusement.  If dragons could blush, he rather thought Temeraire would be blushing.  He shook his head as though shaking off water, making the golden mane stiffen and flex.  "I don't recall Volly with a ruff such as mine.  Should I have it cut, you think?"

"No!"  Temeraire cried with horror, coming close and rubbing against William, climbing carefully around his captains forelegs to nuzzle up under his captains now much larger chin.  "Oh, oh I was being very silly, was I not?  You are quite singular, Laurence.  I shall be happy with whatever shape you or I are in.  Are there other humans that can change as you do?"

"Hmm.  There was.  Once."  William admitted.  "But it was a very rare talent.  I would ask you not go mentioning it to anyone else.  It would be unseemly."

"I suppose..."

William flapped his wings, and felt the swirling air like a sixth sense.  He'd never had the mind for magic, not in the way a mage would need it, but Merlin had beat a few tricks into his head.  Otherwise, what good was having the prana of a dragon if that dragon did not use it.  Reinforcement.  Invisible air.  Blood and breath. 

"Would you like to fly, my dear?  I can tell you a story as we go."

Temeraire practically vibrated in glee.  "Can we?  Will not someone see?"

"If we go high enough, they will only see two dragons.  When already today they have seen two dragons.  It is nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACTS:
> 
> The present day use of silverware (fork, knife, spoon) is generally believed to have caught on during the Renissance due to Medici dinners making it fashionable. Previously, even royalty used their hands for most things. This means despite Hollywood King Arthur would have been using his hands and at most a spoon. I even went to an exhibit once that suggested forks took so long to be popular because early Christians saw them as implements of the Devil (think classic pitchfork wielding Satan), and God gave you a hand to use, didn't He?
> 
> Also, Age of Sail sailors have many strange traditions and beliefs. Eggshells attracting witches is one of them. I am immensely entertained by the idea that Riley had to either assign someone the duty of breaking Temeraire's egg remains into bitty bits before tossing it overboard or the crew did it on the sly. 
> 
> Also, I tossed a bunch of my own headcannon in here with regards to Arturia vs. Vortegern. Basic idea is that V went dragon with two goals: 1.) do a ton of AoE damage and take our Arturia's troops, and 2.) draw Arturia out so they could battle dragon-a-dragon and he could come out the victor. Arturia did not take the bait as she thinks going dragon makes it too easy to lose control. She did however take advantage of his big fat ass to ram a lance through his exposed and unarmored belly where everyone could see, thus ending the war.
> 
> The bit about animal transformations with Merlin comes from The Once And Future King (part 1) which was the basis for Disney's Sword in the Stone. I don't remember there being a Mad Madame Mim who could turn into a dragon in the original book but for the sake of Temeraire having Best Captain lets say she existed.
> 
> Of course, Temeraire is growing up with tales of The Knights of the Round Table. Battle Thirst is Strong. King George Knighting Temeraire Endgame? Y/N?


End file.
